


Requests?

by OtakuElf



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Gen, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:23:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does anyone have suggestions on what they'd like to see?  I'll write for Sherlock, for Dragon Age, or for Star Wars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I am somewhat stuck in between on a lot of projects. If anyone wants to give me a suggestion, I'll write a short bit on that prompt. Thanks.


	2. Dissolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade. Mycroft Holmes is suing Gregory Lestrade for divorce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Reyes_Zane. Prompt: "I actually would like a Mystrade fiction. Maybe a divorce between the two but they get back together. I'm totally in a angst mood."

London was grey. Rain was expected in the city; it was usual. Sheets of spray drifting down from drab clouds seemed more somber now than a year ago. Mycroft Holmes did his best to avoid venturing outside in any weather to begin with. Much as he loved his umbrella - a classic of course, steel shaft with a smoothly carved wooden curve to the handle that felt at home in his hand - the rhythmic patter of rain on the black cloth was not something the man enjoyed.

Someone else he knew loved that sound. Oh, not when forced into a stake-out, dark and clammy and unable to see much beyond the hand in front of his face. Freezing cold and a body in danger of hypothermia, those were not enjoyable to anyone in their right mind. Mycroft could remember, though, the rattling of rain on a slate roof, a stone and turf cottage by a grey-green sea frothing as it raged toward the rocky shoreline. 

The tall, thin, auburn-haired man would have much preferred to stay for the fortnight in his rooms on Pall Mall. Or the house he’d purchased for them both. Food prepared for them by his personal cook, or sent up from any of a number of quality restaurants, instead of by hands unused to cooking in a strange and fairly primitive kitchen. The flagstone floors required slippers and rugs to keep feet from dancing over their frigid greyness. The firewood had been wet, but his newly instated husband had eventually managed to catch it ablaze. They’d left the draft shut. Then they’d been forced to open doors and windows to clear out the billow of dingy ash and smoke that ballooned out into the small sitting area. A brisk sea wind flowing through the house afterward was "just the thing" as his spouse had said. 

The double bed had been nice. Not a king, not even a queen, but ample enough and perfectly between softness sufficing to welcome and cradle the bodies curved together, but firm enough that there was no backache after what was a goodly proportion of their holidays spent in it. 

The cottage had gone with Greg when Mycroft left. A consolation prize to the man who had lost out to Her Majesty’s Government, though it had not been asked for. There had been the stiff, affronted thrust of a hand holding the deed and the papers requesting freedom when his husband had confronted him. “Do you think this will pay me off, Mycroft? I don’t want anything of yours.”

The Iceman had looked back at him from behind the wide mahogany desk. He'd kept it deliberately between then. “The cottage was never anything of mine, Greg.”

It was a lie. And the truth. The cottage had never really been Mycroft’s. He had owned it for years, inherited from his father’s sister, when the farmhouse in Sussex had gone to Sherlock. None of their family had been keen to leave London. No, the cottage by the sea had never been something of his. Not until he’d been there with his husband. It had become theirs. There was an ache to giving it away, as though he was handing off the memories of love and companionship that they’d created together. Laughter at how inept two adult men could be out in the wild coast, when each was so very competent in their own milieu. Joy at how perfectly they’d fit together on the the bed - and just about every other surface in the cottage. Wonder at waking to watch the sunlight glinting on silver hair falling across the plain white cotton of the case covering the goose down pillow. At feeling the soft, steady, sleeping breath on his skin from a man who had chosen him to be with always. Always was not going to be forever, was it?

There were other memories, of course. Mornings together. Unlike most couples, those had been one or another of them just coming in after a night of work. Solitary sleeping, but getting to see his spouse over breakfast and a pot of strong coffee. They’d lunched together, or one might show up at the other’s workplace with food to force a break on the workaholic. They’d both been, of course. Workaholics. Amazing how many of Mycroft’s memories centered on the meals enjoyed together. One of the fantasies Mycroft had engaged in early on was of the pair of them, retired and enjoying tea on a warm summer afternoon. Oddly, the fantasies were not about the sex. The sex was very good. But it was distracting as well, to be thinking of his desire at random moments when his husband popped into mind. Mycroft did not think there would ever be a time when he did not find Gregory Lestrade desirable. He was, he admitted, in love with Greg, and would be everlastingly.

But Mycroft was not allowed that. Always or everlasting, they were not for him. And it should have been for Greg, who deserved so much more than Mycroft would give to anyone. Better in the long run to cut the man loose and give him space to find someone else - a partner who would make him happy, not worried. Or suspicious.

Oh, Gregory Lestrade was not stupid. He had known what he was getting into with marrying the British government. There was patience, and to spare, for late nights and missed anniversaries. There was physical bravery beyond what Mycroft could boast. There was flexibility in living with a man who was rigid as to his habits, and unyielding in his attention to duty. There was understanding when Mycroft drew away to protect his lover from the attentions of Moriarty’s network, at least to begin with. 

Serpents’ words placed in the Detective Inspector’s ear had not helped - reminding Greg of his ex-wife and her frequent absences, multiple excuses, persistent dalliances. Well meaning (or not) co-workers who found Greg’s choice of partner odd. The Holmes’ name was an aberration to many at New Scotland Yard. Possibly Mycroft’s own enemies as well, disgruntled by his innate ability to work around their petty machinations and schemes for selfish aggrandizement instead of the good of the realm.

In the end, not even Sherlock’s, “Don’t be absurd, Graham. Mycroft is not an adulterer” could reassure his husband. That had been, for Sherlock, equivalent to massive interference on his brother’s behalf. Not enough, and not understood for what it was. As intelligent as Greg had been, and still was, he had been burned before. Mycroft knew well the phrase, “Once bitten, twice shy.”

Today, as the grey rain tapped icy fingers against the window glass of Mycroft’s office, the man drew his sharp nose out of his reports and stared out into the darkening sky. He wondered when the packet of signatures would arrive at his solicitor’s office, signalling the termination of his marriage to a man he truly loved. It would be today. Or tomorrow. Or the end of the week. Mycroft knew and loved even Gregory Lestrade’s flaws. Procrastination was not one of them, as it was not in Mycroft’s nature. Best to sever the tie. Sear the flesh and cauterize the wound.

Well, that was a massively unpleasant description. It was inaccurate as well. The pain under Mycroft Holmes’ waistcoat was a piercing sharpness, on top of a dull ache. Not the agony of burning, to be sure, but painful enough in its own right. For Mycroft it would be a lasting pain. He did not delete nasty, sticky emotions, as his brother had. They were what made him understand the goldfish, and as such were invaluable. 

There was the whisper of his solid oaken office door sliding open across the thick, rich carpet. “I do not wish to be disturbed,” he told his assistant - usually she had better sense than to enter his space without request.

“Well, that’s too bad.” Unexpected words in an unexpected voice. “Because I intend to disturb you anyway.”

“Greg,” caught in his throat as he turned to his desk, to see the doorway and the intruder in it. Clearing that lump gave him the moment to gather into the Iceman. “What do you want?”

Gregory Lestrade threw the handful of legal documents among the piles of file folders on the polished surface. “I won’t be signing these.” Blunt and to the point.

“Why not?” Mycroft asked stiffly. The settlement was more generous than Greg had ever let him be in their married life. That could not be helped.

A hand still decorated with a plain gold band pushed through silver hair wet with rain. “Because I’ve been thinking about all this. This mess.” A nod of the head indicated what Mycroft assumed were the divorce papers. “And I don’t know what you’ve been thinking. Hell, I don’t even know what I’ve been thinking half the time lately. But we’re not doing this.”

It was darker now, in the room, but not nearly so drab as the incandescent lights shone cheerfully. Outside it was raining harder. The detective inspector wore work clothes, a light grey off-the-rack suit, dark blue tie putting a glint of colour into a staid and all-purpose outfit. He’d abandoned his overcoat in the outer office, Mycroft realized, and had left NSY early. “What is it,” Mycroft asked icily, “That we’re not doing? I can think of many things that will no longer be occurring.”

“This,” the hand flashed between the two of them, “You and me. The divorce. We’re not doing it.” Mycroft had always loved Greg’s determination. That same determination was coming back to bite him.

Brown eyes gauged him behind his solid and secure desk. “Right,” the shorter man said as he rounded the desk, grabbing a folding chair along the way. “Your folding chairs are nicer than any of the furniture in my office. Now,” he settled into the chair facing Mycroft, “Look at the papers.”

“Papers?” Eyes flickered to the fan of documents Greg had dropped. Too many minute details were scrambling for attention. “You’ve been to the pub with John.” Pick up the pages. “You had a tonic and lime instead of a porter.” Leaf through the papers. “These are not just the unsigned divorce papers. You’re selling the house?”

“Yes.” It was short, those keen eyes fixed on his face.

“Where will you live?” Mycroft’s voice remained steady and calm. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I won’t live there without you.” That was said calmly, though Greg’s little tells - the tight jaw, the careful breathing - were all there.

Mycroft’s pale eyes flicked up and down, reading Greg’s suit, his hair. “You slept on someone’s sofa last night.”

There was just a hint of tilt to the head. “Sherlock’s. It’s not comfortable, no matter how much time your brother spends sulking on it.”

“You didn’t drink any alcohol. Aren’t sprees supposed to be consistent with alcoholic indulgence?” It was difficult to know what was going on here. John’s usual remedy for most interpersonal clashes was a night at the pub, drinking lager and throwing darts at things.

Greg looked out through the rain spattered glass, seeing only their reflections. “Well, Mary and John and Sherlock and I didn’t go out the pub last night. Tonight they made me have supper before coming here. Not that I ate much.”

Marvelous. Mary Morstan Watson was involved. “Sherlock forced you to eat?”

Greg leaned back in the temporary chair. “He said, ‘Gavin. No, Gary. Damn it! Lestrade, eat something before you fall down.’” His mimicry was excellent.

“And what did John and Mary tell you?” Mycroft had to admit he was a bit curious.

“Mary and John were there to translate ‘sherlock speak’ for me,” the detective inspector told him. “As if I couldn’t get the gist of it myself.”

“And?” Mycroft’s eyebrow raised before he could control it.

“Are you mad, Lestrade?” Greg quoted, “You’re an idiot. You should listen to me and no one else. My brother has never cheated on you. He is not a philanderer. And he is not a prostitute, even for Her Majesty. He is in love with you. Sentiment. It’s an awful thing.”

Mycroft muttered, “Says the man who has an unnatural relationship with his best friend and his best friend’s assassin wife.”

“Yeah well, they’re trying to figure out how to make two twenty one B bigger on the inside so that there’s space for the Watsons. So that Sherlock doesn’t have to leave Baker Street or Mrs. Hudson,” Greg told him. “And your brother is celibate, as he told me more times than I care to think of last night.”

“If you did not think I was already aware of that,” Mycroft began, only to be interrupted.

“You were the one who called it an ‘unnatural relationship’,” Greg pointed out.

Mycroft sighed. “I was referring to two sociopaths - one of whom is an addict, the good Doctor, and the incipient baby.”

“At least they’re talking. And Sherlock has admitted that he has a problem. Unlike someone else I know,” Greg frowned at him. “Of course, when we start counseling, you’ll talk, alright.”

“What?” Mycroft rarely raised his voice as he did now. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Nope,” Greg popped his ‘p’ in imitation of Mycroft’s brother. It was irritating enough when Sherlock did it. Greg knew this. Greg was deliberately baiting him.

“I’m not going to a marriage counselor with you.” Blunt, a refusal that should garner Greg’s wrath at being balked.

“Suit yourself. I’m going, or rather he’s coming to the flat. And we’re going to talk. We’re going to work this out. You have to come home some time. I’ve got leave coming up, so I can wait.” Greg was attempting to look smug. Which meant, Mycroft thought, that he was rather less certain about his plan than he wanted to appear.

“What do you mean?” the British Government asked warily.

“John and Mary, well, and Sherlock, helped me move my stuff to the flat. Our flat. Across the street,” as though he needed to make certain that Mycroft knew where he was living.

“My rooms in Pall Mall?” Mycroft said, even as he despised himself for repeating.

“That’s the place. I’ll be waiting for you there, after you get off work tonight.” Still the uncertain tone in what Greg was attempting to make strong and sure.

Mycroft closed his eyes and tilted his aching head back against the black leather of his chair. “I could have security remove you,” he said without opening his eyes.

“You could,” Gregory Lestrade agreed, “But you won’t.”

A deep breath. Then two. There were so many plans solidifying in his head. None of them particularly believable. There were harsh things he could say that would drive this man away. Mycroft knew the buttons to push in everyone around him. He didn’t think Greg would believe them, but they would damage the man Mycroft still loved even further.

“Hey,” Mycroft opened his eyes to find Greg standing over him, the hand clad in their wedding band touching his cheek gently. Greg looked him in the eye. “It’s not easy. I know. It’s work. And it’s not something either of us are good at. Oh, we’re good at the perseverance bit. We’re both smart enough, and tough enough to struggle to get what we want. Sentiment. Not always about losing. It’s a process. We can do this. ” 

It hit Mycroft Holmes that Greg was willing to fight him on this. His British bulldog of a New Scotland Yard detective was holding firm. Perhaps it was not wrong to lose in this. No explosions and rubble and lost lives if he was wrong here. Just pain. And loss. Which he was already experiencing. “Alright,” he said, giving in, “We’ll talk.”

“Over dinner?” Greg pursued his advantage.

“Yes, over dinner. Have them send up a meal. I’ll be home,” that felt right, to call it home knowing that Gregory would be there, “in an hour.”

“Knocking off a bit early tonight?” Greg’s eyebrow disappeared into his silver bangs.

Mycroft gave as severe a look as he could manage. “I’m not likely to concentrate on work when I know you’re waiting at home to talk.”

A nod of that silver-haired head, then his husband leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss. “I’ll be waiting.”

Forty minutes later, when Mycroft Holmes strode out of his office, umbrella on his arm to brave the rain in crossing the street, the documents that Greg had left on his desk were only strips of paper under the shredder.


	3. Rest At Home, part one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Oleta. Sherlock and John in retirement. Sherlock beekeeping, John writing The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes with help remembering from Sherlock, also blogging. Both men napping when the mood takes them. Lestrade and Mycroft visiting. Some equivalent of take-away, if such is possible, or Sherlock or John becoming a gourmet cook, the toast of their small neighborhood. Good, enjoyable neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long. Part one today, and then the Lestrade and Mycroft bit another time.

Sherlock had never thought of his transport wearing out. Thinking back, he searched through his Mind Palace for the first inkling that his body was not going to be able to continue as it always had. The arthritis, he supposed. It had been a surprising weakness. Not the weakness that came from overdosing. Or from forgetting to eat, as he had so often done before John had bounced into his life with that military stride. Once Sherlock had gotten rid of that psychosomatic limp, of course.

“Sherlock? What was the name of the prison guard who helped Mia Payden escape custody? I’ve quite forgotten it, and can’t seem to find it in my notes,” John peered over the wire rimmed reading glasses he needed even when the font on his laptop was set as high as feasibly possible.

“Fletcher,” Sherlock told him, flexing his fingers. Really, the bee stings were doing some good. Not much swelling, and no pain. In fact, he’d not had so much as a twinge in his hands since he’d started the hives. “Mandy Fletcher.”

“Your arthritis acting up?” John asked, peering down at his keyboard now as he hunted and pecked.

“Not at all,” Sherlock said smugly. 

“Well, then you won’t mind getting me a cuppa, will you?” John said absently.

The tall, detective, still thin after all these years of running about after puzzles, watched his blogger for a bit. John was stouter than he had been when they first met. It was reassuring, actually. His doctor had been so very thin after Mary’s death. Losing both his wife and his child in something so senseless as a car smash had taken the heart out of him. 

Mycroft had spoken in his usual overbearing manner to Sherlock at the time, reminding his brother of Sherlock’s own “death” and its effect on Dr. John Watson. John took such things hard. When he loved, and John did not give his love easily, he loved with a whole heart.

John still missed his wife, still thought of the lost child with all the intensity of a lost dream. Once a month the doctor took the train in to the city to visit their graves. The consulting detective could remember watching John visit the empty grave marked with Sherlock’s name. It made him unlikely to complain about John’s absence on those occasions.

Gladstone, the bulldog pup that Sherlock had brought home in a fit of charitable insanity, dozed at John’s feet, warm in the radiance from the fire. The canine was drooling on the floor again, in spite of the terrycloth John had laid down over the hardwood floor to catch it. Sherlock had not complained about that so much as the malodorous gases that escaped from the creature’s nether regions with a fair frequency. Sherlock was convinced that both the salivary leakage and the methane were increasing as the dog grew older. “Sherlock,” John had said with patience, “Don’t be an idiot. Gladstone has always farted and drooled. You’re not experimenting on him either. Not to measure the amount, and not to stop him from doing it. It’s normal for bulldogs.”

After observing his partner and housemate for a time, Sherlock turned to the electric kettle and set about making tea. “Perfect,” John took a sip of tea so milky it was almost white, “Just what I needed. Thank you!” and went back to his typing.

Of course it was perfect. Sherlock had taken into account the weather, the humidity of the living space, John’s current medications, and what they’d had for luncheon. It was simply a matter of observation, and acting upon what one obtained from it. Sherlock’s own cuppa contained enough sugar to stand a spoon up in, as John frequently told him. Of course, Sherlock’s cups of tea were often cold by the time he actually consumed them.

Today he took a hot mouthful and savoured it before pulling his apron from the hook by the pantry. It read “”Baking is science for hungry people”. There was a slate grey one for John as well, stating, “One shot. One kill.” and another in black that Sherlock reserved specifically for when his brother had come to help out after John’s surgery. It read, “Clearly I have made some bad decisions”. Of the three aprons, only Mycroft’s was immaculate, although he had used it often with a gravity that said aloud, “I am ignoring this label.” Sherlock had purchased all three from a webcomic’s sales site.

John did cook. He made risotto, beans on toast, and a number of very simple foods that did not require following detailed instructions. It was not that John was not interested in eating, or that he was unable to follow those directions. It was that the man could not be bothered. It was lack of interest, not inability to cook.

Moving into the farm house had been something of a revelation with regard to food. Mrs. Hudson was sorely missed. She had passed away quietly in her sleep at the ripe age of 97, chronically plagued by her hip, but still refusing to use a wheelchair.

There was an Indian take-away place in the town nearby, as well as an Italian restaurant that was not nearly as good as Angelo’s. Angelo had retired, and lived too far away to cook for them. Unless Sherlock and John were heading into London, those, along with a handful of very precious tea rooms, were their options for food. Therefore, Sherlock had taken it on himself to provide meals. It was useful, the task, in that the timing required for cooking for the pair of them meant that he did not get lost in his mind palace for days at a time. While the bees were largely self-sufficient, Sherlock’s notes on them required strictly measured time periods.

Today Sherlock was stewing chicken. They purchased plucked and dressed birds from the farm next door, as well as unprocessed milk for Sherlock’s experiments with mold cultures.

Today was a challenge, as he was cooking for four, instead of just for John’s delectation. Sherlock tended not to notice too much about the taste of food unless he was observing others. Usually he knew what John liked and skewed his measurement of herbs and spices to that. With Mycroft and Lestrade joining them, that changed the balance of how the man cooked.

Sherlock crossed the thick oaken planks that had appeared when John ripped up the ancient, cracking lino. Cleaned and properly stained, they gave the house a solid, cozy feel.

The furniture had originally been their modern pieces from the flat on Baker Street. The skulls, cow and human, had made the transition, and remained. The wing chairs and matching sofa that had replaced those chrome and leather bits from the London flat, were the gift of a grateful barrister client. They were comfortable, if upholstered with large brocade cabbage roses. 

Sherlock’s affront at the decorative choice had lasted only until the first time the detective threw himself down upon the sofa in a sulk. John, who admitted that his taste was not posh, quite enjoyed the vivid wing chair he had chosen as his own. The motionless form of the encouched detective, fingers steeple before his face, had moved after a quarter of an hour. Parting his fingers, Sherlock found John watching him with bright humorous eyes. 

“The sofa can stay,” came before the fingers steepled again.

That was long ago, of course, and now Sherlock had become used to the horrifically patterned furniture. Though it had taken him some time of lying down with his eyes closed to acclimatize himself to the wing chairs.

After getting the chicken and vegetables assembled and cooking in the pots on the stove, Sherlock entered from the kitchen, drying his hands on a cheerful hand towel which then became part of the living room detritus. The lanky git threw himself down on the sofa next to his friend’s chair. Keeping his nose alert of any complication to the chicken simmering on the gas stove, he steepled long fingers before his face and prepared to catalog the wild flower seeds he was expecting in the next post.

The fire popped and crackled behind the chainlink enclosure, and two of the inhabitants of the house slept quietly in its warmth.

John pressed his palms against closed eyes. The coolness of his hands - poor circulation - eased the ache, but did nothing for his memory. Frustrating to lose the past. He’d noticed that Sherlock took longer to access his Mind Palace. Not cripplingly long, of course. The difference being that sometimes his old friend fell asleep while processing. Like now, as a soft snore came from the direction of the couch. It was echoed by the dog on his terrycloth towel before the hearth.

It was comforting, John thought, to be together, dozing by the fire - Gladstone chasing rabbits in his dreams, Sherlock doing much the same - only with criminals. The retired doctor found himself watching them both sleep, muscles twitching, each mumbling as the firelight flickered over their sleeping features.

He missed Mary. Of course he did. The thought of his beloved, crazy ex-assassin wife here with himself and Sherlock would have been perfect. Visits by Violet and whatever young man had caught her fancy. And survived her mum’s and Uncle Sherlock’s fierce protectiveness, her Uncle Mycroft’s security checks, and her father’s strong temper. John thought that both Mary and Violet would have loved this place.

The wing-backed chair before the file was inordinately comfortable, the milky tea soporific, and the elderly ex-soldier drifted into dreams of gentle family that might have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aprons are designs from Questionable Content. 
> 
> https://www.topatoco.com/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=TO&Product_Code=QC-DECISIONS&Category_Code=QC


End file.
